ONCE WE WERE SAFELY back inside the Turtles’ Hamptons getaway, Miss May rushed to the kitchen table and opened the trash bag. She was about to dump the contents of the bag onto the table when I reached out to stop her.
“Wait!” I cried out. “This is an expensive table. Don’t get ash all over it.”
“Lives are on the line, Chelsea,” Miss May said impatiently.
“Give me one second,” I said, scanning the room. “I’ll put something down on the table.”
I understood the urgency of the situation, but I also appreciated the beautiful table and wanted to protect it. The house was staged so well, there were no loose odds or ends to cover the table. Not even a spare piece of fabric. So I unbuttoned my shirt and flung it across the table.
“Whoa-ho, getting a little PG-13 in here!” Teeny said. Then she cracked up laughing. “Hang on a second. Do you have slices of pizza on your bra?”
I looked down. Teeny was not wrong. I picked the wrong day to wear my cartoon pizza bra.
“Don’t get distracted!” I said. “Let's see what's in the bag.”
Teeny doubled over with laughter. Miss May chuckled too.
“That is ridiculous,” Miss May said. “Let me guess. Your undies have little pictures of cookies on them.”
I cringed.
“Wait! Am I right?” Miss May’s eyes widened as she waited for my answer.
I looked down. “My undies also have pizza on them."
Teeny and Miss May both cracked up.
“You guys,” I protested. “My undergarments are not what’s important right now. Who cares if they’re pizza-themed? They're comfortable!”
Neither Teeny nor Ms. May seemed capable of getting a grip, so I grabbed the trash bag and dumped the contents onto my shirt.
Much of the bag had been reduced to ash. But among the ashes were several pieces of charred paper. I picked up a scrap.
“This is a newspaper article.” I held out the paper to Miss May. “Looks like part of a headline. See?”
Miss May took the scrap and squinted at it. “The only word I can make out is ‘robbery.’”
Teeny ran her fingers through the pile of ashes. “There are more scraps of paper here. Maybe we can figure the rest out?”
I grabbed another scrap from the pile. “Here’s the date. July 19. Ten years ago.”
“Here's something else,” I said and extracted another fragment. The paper was singed around the edges but I could make out one important detail. “The robber made out with over $3 million.”
Teeny gasped. “Here's another shred of paper! The Yankees lost by three in extra innings. Oh. Maybe that's less relevant.”
“Maybe we should piece this all together like a puzzle and see what we get,” Miss May suggested.
I nodded and silently slid a few pieces into place. Teeny and Miss May stepped back as I worked. I was usually quick at puzzles so they let me do my thing. Most of the article had been reduced to nothing, but after several minutes I had compiled snippets of a few sentences or phrases for us to read.
“...murderous intruder.” “...threatened customers.” “...armed and dangerous.”
I was about to give up when I found one last intriguing snippet. I read it aloud, “‘The photo above shows a police sketch of the criminal.’”
“I don't understand,” Miss May said. “This person robbed the bank without even a mask on? Do we have any pieces of the sketch?”
I sifted through the ash on the table. “There's a few more scraps of paper. Let me see what I can put together.”
“Do you think Dennis was the burglar?” Teeny asked.
Miss May shook her head. “I don't know. I suppose it's possible. Or maybe Linda or Reginald robbed the bank, and Dennis knew about it?”
“They didn't seem like bank robbers to me,” Teeny said. “But then again, they were snobs who lost their fortune. Desperate times.”
I held up a piece of paper. “I think I found a nose!”
Teeny peered over my shoulder. “Oh yeah. That's a schnoz. Do you think the police can identify someone based on their schnoz?”
“I doubt it,” Miss May said. “Although it seems clear that whoever this burglar was, he or she escaped that day without being caught. And probably this robber person has something to do with Linda and Reginald's death.”
My phone rang. I took a subtle look under the table. Mike. Forwarding that to voicemail, thank you very much. Thank goodness Teeny and Miss May didn't catch that one. I'd never live it down.
I turned my attention back to the pile of ashes, hoping to find an eye or maybe an ear, but then someone knocked on the front door.
A feeble voice called out. “Hello? I know you're not here for a bed and breakfast!”
Teeny, Miss May and I exchanged worried glances. “It's the neighbor lady,” I said. “What are we going to do?”
Miss May shrugged and Teeny called out, “We're busy. Come back later! We didn't order any pizza.”
“We have plenty of pizza on our panties,” Miss May added quietly. I glared.
“I have the spare-spare key,” the woman shouted back. “I only rang the bell as a polite warning. I'm coming in.”
A key turned in the door. I took a step back.
More of that nosy neighbor was the last thing our investigation needed.
“I'M JUST OFF THE PHONE with Dennis! He says this home is not being rented.” The woman walked toward our pile of ashes with outsized authority.
“There must be a mistake,” Miss May said.
“No mistake,” the woman croaked. “Dennis said with absolute certainty. ‘No guests allowed.’ So what are you doing here? What's on the table? Is this girl wearing a pizza brassiere?”
“This is just a puzzle,” I said. “We're playing a game. On vacation. As people do.”
“Who breaks into someone's house, pretending they're staying at a BnB, and plays a game?”
Teeny stepped forward. “We didn't break in. You let us in! Showed us the key, ya old bag!”
Miss May held Teeny back with one arm. “What my friend means is...” Miss May searched for an out. “Dennis must be mistaken. We rented this home from Linda and Reginald Turtle. I can give them a call if you'd like.”
The old woman huffed and puffed. “You most certainly cannot! Those Turtles are dead!”
I found a scrap of paper with what appeared to be a sketch of a mouth on it and lined it up beneath the nose, slowly forming a portrait of the burglar. “I got a mouth!”
The woman pushed her way toward me. “What now? What are you talking about? Is this the trash you were digging around in earlier?”
“No. It’s nothing. Never mind!”
I turned away from the woman and kept hunting through the ashes. I found a cheek, then another ear, then part of what might have been a forehead. A face began to form.
“This is not a regular puzzle,” the woman said. “This is stolen trash! Taking someone else’s garbage is a felony. I'm sure of it.”
“Nu-uh,” Teeny said. “That's stolen mail you're thinking of. Trash is up for grabs. One man's trash is another man's puzzle! This BnB has subpar entertainment. There's no TV! We had to get creative.”
The woman placed her hands on her hips. “One man's trash is that man's trash for the entire time it's on his property.”
I took cover behind Teeny and stepped back to look at my work. I had a few features, but the face was no more recognizable than a Mr. Potato Head. Teeny and the old neighbor woman were about to come to blows over the legality of stealing trash, so I stepped between them.
“Teeny! It's OK. The puzzle is missing pieces. Forget it.”
Teeny turned to me. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Also, I think I may have taken us to the wrong address.” I turned to the angry woman. “We were looking for the Turtles’ East Hampton property. Is this the wrong part of the island?”
The woman clutched her chest as though I had just hurled a fat loogie of an
insult. “This is South Hampton! East Hampton is far less upscale.”
“That explains it.” I shot a glance at Miss May. “Sorry. I took us to the wrong Turtle house.”
“I wasn't even aware the Turtles had a home in that ghetto,” the woman said.
“They're ashamed of it,” I said. “I'm sure.”
“That makes sense,” the woman said. “Well. I'm glad that's settled. Time for you all to go then?”
I nodded. “Time for us to go.”
25
Potholes in Paradise
BY THE TIME WE GOT out to the pickup and lurched onto the main road, Miss May’s sleuth-brain had already kicked into high gear.
“Where can we access those old newspaper articles? Someone has to have a copy still intact,” she said. “Should we try the local library?”
“I don't think the library is a good idea,” I said. Then I pointed at the building across the street, an old library with a sign out front that read “Library Closed Due to Lack of Funding. Thanks for Nothing.”
“Ha!” Teeny laughed. “I mean, awww. That's sad for that library. But I like their sign. It’s sassy.”
“I agree,” Miss May said. “Clever signage. But if that local library isn't open anymore... Do we have any hope of finding a copy of those articles?”
“It's possible that the library digitized the papers before it closed,” I said. “But we would need access to some sort of special educational or journalistic databases for that.”
“How do you know?” Teeny asked.
I shrugged. “I worked on some restoration projects in Manhattan a couple years ago. The furniture needed to be accurate to the era. I had to get authorization from NYU to use their libraries. Even then, I needed a grad student to help me navigate the databases.”
“Your job is so cool,” Teeny said. “I want to be an interior designer.”
“It was cool,” I said, emphasizing was. “Too bad Mike stole all my clients, and I had to crawl back to Pine Grove with my tail all chewed up.”
Teeny leaned forward. “Was that Mike who called you in there?”
“Who else would be calling her?” Miss May said.
I guess they noticed.
“Maybe that detective with the keg for a chest and tree trunks for legs,” Teeny said.
“That is not an attractive description,” I said.
“How would you describe his chest?” Miss May asked.
“I wouldn't!” I said. “Can we get back to the investigation please?”
“Right! The databases,” Miss May said. “I have an idea.”
Miss May pulled out her phone, made a call and put it on speaker. Two rings later, a female voice answered.
“This is Liz. Editor-In-Chief, Pine Grove Gazette. Everything you say is on the record unless you request otherwise.”
“Liz. It's May. I want this off the record.”
“One second. I'll turn the recorder off.” A second passed. Liz returned to the line. “OK. It's off.”
“You record all conversations unless someone asks you not to?” Miss May asked.
“I'm a reporter,” Liz said. “What do you need?”
Miss May shook her head. “I need access to some databases. We’re looking for an old newspaper article from a Hamptons publication.”
“Too time-consuming. I'm working a big story right now. New pothole on Commerce Street. It’s scandalous. Not enough hours in the day. Sorry.”
“This is bigger than a pothole,” Miss May said.
“The pothole is two feet wide and two feet deep.”
“Two feet deep?! That's a regular hole,” I said. “Not a pothole.”
“Is Chelsea there?” Liz asked. “I appreciate being informed when I'm on speaker. I'd do the same for you.”
“Always assume Chelsea is with me,” Miss May said.
“I'm here too, Liz,” Teeny said. “How's your mother?”
“She's well.”
“And your brother and sisters?” Teeny asked.
“Also well,” Liz said. “I'll tell them you said hi.”
Miss May covered the phone. “Can you stop with the small talk, Teeny?”
Teeny winced. “Sorry.”
Miss May uncovered the phone. “So. Liz. I respect your pothole.”
“Or regular-sized hole,” Liz said. “I like that angle.”
“Right. I respect the hole,” Miss May continued. “But I promise this story is bigger. And I'll give you the scoop after we solve it. But only if you help us.”
“I can work any story I want,” Liz said.
“But only one person will have exclusive access to the team that solved the Turtle murders. And I'm not above going to the Hudson Valley News with this intel.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Liz yelled at someone to stay away from her pothole. We heard steps crunching over gravel. Then the sound of Liz getting in her car and slamming the door behind her.
“OK,” Liz said. “This better be good.”
THE NEXT MORNING, MISS May and I headed to the library to meet Liz. We stopped at Grandma’s to pick up Teeny on our way, but the restaurant had a line out the door. People had heard great things about Petey’s cuisine, and they were ready to pay big bucks for his cooking. Apparently his stick food wasn’t too fancy after all. It was like the Hashbrown Lasagna craze all over again.
Teeny had spent so long encouraging Petey to do something productive with his life, she took his success as a success of her own. She had decided to work as a waitress to support Petey's big day, and she didn't complain at all when we told her we'd have to meet up with Liz on our own. OK, she actually complained a lot, but she got over it. I made a mental note to pop back for more of Petey's fries later, then Miss May and I left, on a mission. As usual.
When Miss May and I entered the library, Liz was knee-deep in an argument with a surly, bearded librarian. Liz was red-faced and angry, while the librarian appeared bored and on the edge of sleep.
“I cannot believe this,” Liz said. “I demand to speak to your manager.”
“I don't have a manager,” the bearded man said. “I'm a volunteer.”
Miss May approached with a gentle smile. “Is there a problem, Liz?”
“There is a problem, as a matter of fact. Ask this sleepy librarian. He'll tell you all about it.”
The sleepy librarian shrugged. “The main library is flooded. Only computers available are in the children's area.”
“That should be okay,” Miss May said. “We can go in there.”
“When's the last time you worked in the children's library?” Liz asked.
Miss May shrugged. “I can't remember. Maybe never?”
“Well,” Liz said. “You're in for a treat.”
To be honest, when I found out that we would be working in the children's library, I was excited. I loved children's libraries. They were always so bright and fun and alive. A stark contrast to the beige, bland grown-up libraries that are so often found in small towns.
But when we entered the children's area, I understood what Liz had meant. There was only one computer. It was about two feet off the ground. And the only chairs for the computer were tiny little beanbags that looked like cupcakes. Not exactly a perch befitting a future Pulitzer prize-winning journalist.
“This is ridiculous,” Liz said. “That computer is tiny. And look! It's connected to a construction paper drawing of a tree? Absurd.”
I followed Liz's gaze up from the computer. Indeed, a tree had been papier-mâchéd on the wall above the machine. The computer looked like a knot in the big paper oak tree, and there was even a plastic owl drawn above the monitor. Plastic, I thought, remembering Salazar’s words. Everything is plastic. I shuddered at the memory, but it didn’t seem particularly pertinent at the moment.
“I promise this will be worth sitting on the cupcake chair,” Miss May said. “If we find the information we need you could be helping us solve one of the biggest cases in the history
of this town.”
Liz raised her eyebrows. “Really? You said this was bigger than the pothole, but you never said it could be so monumental.”
Miss May turned on the computer, and it booted up. “We won’t know just how big it is unless you can get me into those databases.”
Liz smiled. “Give me 30 seconds, and I'll have all the information you need.”
Two hours later, Liz had located the appropriate database and gained access to the Hamptons Tribune, which was the publication we needed.
“You said you had a date?” Liz asked. I handed Liz a slip of paper with the date printed on it. “Good thing. We’d be hopeless without this.”
I smiled. Liz didn't dish out compliments with much frequency, so it felt extra-validating to be on her good side. A few clicks of the mouse later, and Liz had accessed every article written during the month in question. She muttered as she scrolled through the articles. “July 19... Robbery... Three million...” Then she perked up. “Got it!”
Liz clicked on the article and a story filled the screen, its headline familiar from the pile of scraps and ashes. The words popped up quickly, but the sketch of the burglar loaded with excruciating slowness.
“Where's the photo?” Miss May asked.
Liz pointed at an empty box inlaid on the article. “It's loading. These old servers take forever with images sometimes. Do you guys want to read the article while we wait? Or I could read it to you?”
Miss May chuckled. “Would you like to read the article to us, Liz?”
Liz smiled. “It would be good training for my future as an on-camera personality.”
“Alright,” Miss May said. “Go ahead."
26
The Big Reveal
LIZ CLEARED HER THROAT and began to read.
“Police are investigating after a bank was robbed on Wednesday afternoon by a woman wearing a mask of a United States president who shall not be named.”
“Why won't they name the President?” Miss May asked. “Who cares?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That's weird.”
“Bad journalism,” Liz said. “They should have described the mask in abundant detail. Details are the cornerstone of all good stories. Journalism is all about integrity and honesty and transparency, and when—”
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